The Ghosts of Old Wrongs
by hauntedlittledoll
Summary: Title taken from the movie "The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen" for sheer Supernatural sentiment.  Steampunk AU.  "The Impala flies.  The death count climbs."


A/N: I put on a steampunk playlist and spent an hour writing a drabble for each song. You get my eight favorites. More drabbles might follow, but art definitely will. A steampunk AU of Seasons 4-5 with a brief nod to 6.

* * *

**"I've Been Wrong Before"**

**Abney Park**

"I am a genuine angel, Dean Winchester," the figure informed him once again, spreading the gunmetal-dark wings once again. The shifting of gears and other mechanisms almost sounded like a hum—like something alive.

"The wings aren't that impressive, buddy." Dean crossed his arms. "I've seen some darn impressive pieces before, and any half-decent mechanic could make those prosthetics look good." Any really, _really_ good mechanic, but Dean wasn't going to concede that much ground. "Angels aren't real."

The figure actually lifted off the ground with a heavy flap of the wings.

Dean took a second to fix his jaw before the fireflies became a problem. "Well, I've been wrong before."

* * *

**"She"**

**Abney Park**

Sam crushed Ruby's smaller form to him, back-to-chest. Her long nails caught at his arms as she struggled to reverse their positions within the confines of his hold.

"Share, Sam," she growled, punctuating her demand with a deliberate dig. Ruby was no lady.

Sam ignored her, and tilted her head back easily in one large palm. It was the type of kiss that led to biting and violence and rage. The bloody trails on his forearms (through his frockcoat no less) could attest to that.

But her arms would soon match, and the monster within him would be calmed to the smoldering coals of a dying fire.

Ruby took care of him. She made it easier. Sam shouldn't forget that.

* * *

**"The Only One"**

**Abney Park**

All of Dean's life had revolved around one simple command. "Take care of your brother." It was all that the hunter needed in his life. It was the hand that wound his metaphorical key. And like a wind-up toy soldier, Dean sprang to action.

He protected, served, cared for, and loved with everything inside of him.

Every time that Sam spat in the face of everything Dean stood for, the older brother got to his feet and started over determined to play his role—to fulfill his purpose.

And now the clock was winding down, and the Winchesters had fallen off the tightrope they had walked between Heaven and Hell.

Dean had only one shot to communicate with Sam, and it was a long shot with an angel courier, but he had to get the words right. The second part of his father's order rang in his head, echoing everything that Dean had suspected—had ignored—all year.

But in the end?

Dean wasn't a machine. And he couldn't stop loving Sam if his life depended on it.

* * *

**"Letter Between a Little Boy and Himself as an Adult"**

**Abney Park**

Castiel walked across the dirtied cabin floor. Knowing what stained this floor—_oil,_ _alcohol, vomit, sex, urine_—he gathered the folds of his trenchcoat around him before he crouched in front of another.

Cas grinned up at him, human and metal limbs sprawled loosely across the floor, and gestured wildly with his bottle. "This is how you're going to end you know. We're dead. Dean's dead. The world's dead," Cas scoffed. "The world is the only one that doesn't know it yet. Missed the messenger, so to speak."

"I do not understand that reference."

Cas laughed, loud, rude, deep. "Never change." He stretched and rolled to his feet gracefully. "At least not for another year or two . . ."

"I have to believe otherwise."

Cas nodded. "I know you do."

There was nothing left to say. Castiel got to his feet, and half-turned towards the present . . . but a metal hand closed over his shoulder, and the vivid, inhuman blue eyes of an angel met their darker colder human twins.

Cas met that gaze levelly. "I did try. I did."

"I know," Castiel returned and took wing for the brighter present.

* * *

**"Child King"**

**Abney Park**

Jesse wound the key, and watched the toy walk across the sooty floor. The adults—the hunters—they watched him quietly.

Jesse should let them down. He didn't think they would hurt him. But he hadn't thought an angel would either, and he has the evidence of that shattered belief in his hands.

Jesse stroked a hand over the miniature metallic feathers, and refused to look upward where Sam and Dean were trapped against the machines as if held by a giant magnet.

_Maybe they were. Maybe they wore so many weapons that some internal working of the machine had caught them in the natural force, and maybe the angel was a figment of Jesse's overactive imagination. Maybe the toy was a child's abandoned plaything brought to the engine room on accident._

Jesse wound the key of the rundown toy once more and watched it fly this time, wings flapping desperately, but never out of his reach.

_And maybe the child king of demons could fly like an angel._

_

* * *

_

**"Under the Radar"**

**Abney Park**

The world continued on its merry steam-powered little way as the Apocalypse was waged on its soil. The multitudes continued to live their individual lives with clock-like precision.

But the hunters knew. The hunters could see the signs that civilians ignored. They knew what was out there, and what was coming.

So they came. They fought with fire and iron, coal and silver, powerful weapons forged in Heaven and Hell. They came in secret. They fought for the unaware. They died alone.

But they came anyway.

* * *

**"Impartial (The Battle)"**

**Clockwork Dolls**

Anna would not be swayed. She would not stop. She was a machine, molded and cared for in as merciless fashion as the copper wings at her back. Those who stood with her were welcome. Those against would die swiftly.

Dean. Castiel. Bobby Singer. A younger John and Mary Winchester.

And Sam Winchester would cease to exist, spread from the plains of hell to the skies of heaven without a shred of substance to his name.

The stain it would leave on her, the sorrow at a good man's death . . . it was nothing compared to the good it would do the faceless, nameless multitudes.

She was one of many, but she would do her part, and perhaps Heaven might smile down on her once again.

She believed it until she went up in flames, the crash of broken, molten, destroyed wings striking the floor her last impact on the world.

But Michael smiled down at her as he burned her alive.

* * *

**"The Derelict"**

**Abney Park**

The sleek black Impala was its own kind of death omen. The arrival of the ancient, but well-maintained machine was the herald of a more permanent darkness for creatures of the night.

The Impala brought two knights of the new age, an armory, and the scorching smell of hellfire. Some said the Devil was on its tail. Others said that the riders were Satan and Death themselves. And some knew better—even knew the cost of deals.

But everyone knew that if the sleek black vehicle was spotted, it was time to head indoors and stay there.

The Impala flies. The death count climbs.


End file.
